


A Gotham Ghost Story

by greenfairy13



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Turned Into a Ghost, Eventual Happy Ending, Gobblepot is endgame, Jim Gordon is a ghost, M/M, Post-Canon, Time Travel, sad love stories
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-29
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2020-07-25 19:54:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20031436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greenfairy13/pseuds/greenfairy13
Summary: Oswald Cobblepot shoots Jim Gordon on the pier. Unable to move on to the afterlife, Jim is doomed to haunt the infamous mobster. Tied to Earth but unable to live, Jim only wants to find peace in death. His path there might be bumpy.





	1. The Deep Dive

**Author's Note:**

> Soooo, I said I'd start another project and here it is! :) btw, I adore comments :)))
> 
> Thank you [ Le_Noir (Psycho_Ciquita) ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Psycho_Chiquita/pseuds/Le_Noir) for the beta! You are the ABSOLUTE best!!!!

Jim Gordon is five years old when Elijah Van Dahl decides to have another cup of coffee to calm his racing heart. This decision is - quite obviously - absolutely wrong. 

The very second the bitter, scalding hot liquid touches his lips, every ounce of courage he might have possessed mere moments ago leaves his body. He doubles over, coughs, and bites down delicately on his burnt tongue to assess the damage done to the one organ designed for talking and instantly decides it’s a bad omen, a sign from the heavens for him to hold his tongue, literally. 

Elijah had always been superstitious so it shouldn’t come as a surprise he believes in forewarnings. Sadly, he gets this specific token wrong. Or he doesn’t get it wrong at all; it all really depends on your point of view. Yet, given the man Elijah is, he would have jumped up and stormed off right this instant if he had known his decision to drink a cup of coffee on a hot summer day in the middle of July, missing the undeniably most important date of his entire life in the process, would lead - among others - to the deaths of Gertrud Kabelput, the love of his life, two college students, a cook’s assistant, a postman, Maria Mercedes Mooney, a waitress named Grace, Tabitha Galavan, Butch Gilzean, and, most recently, the death of the cop James Worthington Gordon. 

Most people on this list are arguably not what you’d call _ nice _people but they are undeniably people; Elijah firmly believes that murdering a human being, although it can be forgiven, should never be justified. Therefore, should he have even assumed what was about to happen, he would have regained his courage and walked right out of his kitchen and into his future. 

But as our tale is set in Gotham, a city known for its wicked, malicious ways, Elijah stayed put, opened his fridge and started nursing on a cube of ice, wondering what could have been. 

One could argue this all started even earlier. Maybe over two-hundred years ago, when Elijah’s great-great-great-great-grandfather decided to leave the Netherlands and go on an adventure. Or maybe only three years ago, when his father decided to employ a very young, very pretty, and very talented cook. Or maybe one and a half years ago, when Elijah came back from university and his mother introduced her son to said cook. Or… 

Well, we could go on and on with his list, but it truly was the aforementioned moment when a future, a future that had been in flux up to this minute, stuttered to a halt. Fates were decided, a decision was made, options vanished, and infinity took its turn, leading directly into a dire future. 

In this future, James Worthington Gordon and Oswald Chesterfield Cobblepot, né Van Dahl, face each other on a cold, windy pier for the second time in their lives. The air around them smells foul, like heavy oil, bird droppings, and very soon - blood, too. Blood smells like metal; it has a sweet, heady scent, that can make a sensitive person slightly nauseous. Luckily, Oswald Cobblepot isn’t very sensitive. Not when it comes to blood, that is. The same goes for Jim Gordon, but very soon, his sensitivities won’t count any longer anyway. 

Jim Gordon isn’t surprised he ends up on this pier. He might have hoped things would go differently but hoping doesn’t equal knowing. He _ knew _ it would end this way. 

Therefore, he spent the days leading up to today with his daughter. They went to the ice-cream parlor two times a day for a week, visited the Gotham zoo, ransacked the toy-store and rang the door-bell on uncle Harvey Bullock’s home, despite the man currently recovering from a terrible hangover, until he woke up, only to run away really quickly when he ripped open the door clad in his underwear. 

“I’m going to kill you, Jim Gordon!” he yelled when the younger cop gripped his daughter’s hand tightly and started running. Jim only laughed it off, knowing it wouldn’t be Harvey, not ever. 

Barbara, his former fiancée, argued he would spoil their common child, but Jim wasn’t listening to her, not when being certain he would no longer have that opportunity in the future. 

Mainly, because he has no future. At least not in the traditional sense of the word. 

Jim Gordon would never blame Elijah Van Dahl for his fate. Even if he knew about the coffee, which he doesn’t, he would be adamant about being the architect of his own fortune, for the fault does not lie in our stars. One cannot deny the countless mistakes Jim has made throughout his path in life. Innumerable wrong decisions on his part sealed his fate, yet it still ultimately boils down to one cup of coffee. But we’ll get to that coffee later.

The man in question, the current Captain of the Gotham GCPD, is undeniably a man full of remorse; he would never admit it, not even now, but he deeply regrets the wrongs he did. Despite the fact that he never had a true choice when it comes to some of his actions, and definitely not to the last nail in his coffin, he’s still deeply sorry. 

Ten years ago, he was forced to arrest a man who considered him his friend, a man called Oswald Cobblepot. The sentiment had not been mutual back then, but _ almost _. Jim had respected this man, still does. Therefore, he resigns from giving Oswald pathetic excuses, especially when he had only recently been released from the jail Jim locked him up in. 

Instead, he obediently walks up to the edge of the pier, completely aware of the gun trained on his back. He turns around when ordered, taking in his former ally, nemesis, almost-friend, and even one-time lover. 

Oswald looks good. He hasn’t aged a single day, despite spending the last ten years in Blackgate, Gotham’s infamous prison for felons. They fed him well, Jim thinks when taking in his middle. Undeniably the criminal known as the Penguin has put on some weight, leading to him now truly resembling a flightless bird.

Once, Oswald had been so scrawny, so delicate, Jim was secretly afraid a slight wind would carry him away, never to be seen again. The truth is, he can withstand even the deadliest, most destructive storms. He had been the center of more than one storm, too, and will carry on to be. 

Jim considers telling him he made sure Blackgate provided him with three nutritious meals per day. He considers apologizing, he considers justifying his actions all those years ago. 

He decides against it when Oswald rolls his shoulders and raises his gun again, visibly enraged. The Penguin is screaming at him, throwing one of those tantrums he’s so famous for. Jim has witnessed his wrath before, but it had never been turned directly at him - not like this. 

After everything they have been through, after everything they have accomplished together, after almost falling in love, it feels weird being the object of such searing hatred. It’s not as if Jim doesn’t feel like he deserved himself this hostility, but it’s still odd. 

Oswald yells again. His whole body is shaking, vibrating with all the pent-up anger that had been nurtured for over a decade by now. The air around him seems to sizzle by the sheer power of his emotion, becoming almost tangible in the process. 

Once again, Jim thinks this is probably his last chance to explain, to make the horror he put Oswald through comprehensible but every explanation feels cheap. Whatever he has to say, it’s too little, too late. There would have been countless opportunities in the past to disclose his true motivations for his betrayal, but right now, it would not sound sincere. Besides, Jim isn’t sure himself if he has ever been honest with Oswald. 

Therefore, he opens and closes his mouth, mumbles the gangster’s name and watches the other man quietly. He’s working himself up on his fury, swelling from anger until his words are nothing but a slur, the howling of a deeply wounded animal that is no longer able to cope with the pain. 

Maybe there’s really no point of arguing with him. Maybe Jim must. After all, he has a daughter to care for, to live for. It’s truly his time to speak up but when staring into the barrel of Oswald’s gun, into this all-engulfing darkness, he’s paralyzed. He deserves what is about to come. 

Besides, Jim is stubborn. Oswald deserved his fate, too. He had it coming the second he pulled the trigger for the first time, ending the life of a nameless thug Jim is about to join in the Gotham-river. Anger flares in Jim’s veins as well as self-righteousness. Oswald is cruel, he’s a psychopath, a schemer, and conspirator. He’s selfish and murderous and he destroyed the lives of everyone he’s ever touched. 

Jim doesn’t say a word, though. 

“Our story is over!” Oswald screeches and if the situation wasn’t so serious, Jim would laugh. He sounds like a banshee. His voice comes out as a high-pitched squeak, he’s even spitting into the night’s air and that’s when, at last, the horror settles down in Jim’s gut, joining the remorse. 

There’s a difference between knowing and realizing. Right now, when Oswald Cobblepot forgets his well-crafted manners, Jim realizes he’ll never see his little daughter again. He might have spent the week before the criminal’s release saying farewell to her, but still, grasping the situation entirely hits him with the force of a truck. With the same force, he wills his brain to draw to a blank.

Oswald keeps on screaming and spitting, looking especially comically in his well-tailored, shiny purple jacket, sporting a ridiculous monocle, this imitation, this caricature of a gentleman. He’s nothing but a wild animal enshrouded in layers and layers of luxurious garment, a wolf in sheep-clothes. He’s the monster underneath your bed, this seemingly cute, adorable little man who still stumbles over his own words when excited and blushes like a teenage-girl when being complimented. 

The man who resembles a penguin is the same who can club a person to death with his cane. He’s capable of stabbing formerly close friends so vigorously he paints the walls red. He finds joy in torture, he’s a sadist who revels in the pain of others. 

Jim can’t look at him any longer. Taking a deep breath, he clings to every sin Oswald has ever committed. He remembers the bad things, the things he deserved his destiny for and pushes away other thoughts. He doesn’t want to think back to his awe-stricken expression the first time they kissed, or the way his skin flushes when...NO. 

He doesn’t want to think how everything could be so much easier if he just hadn’t betrayed Oswald, if he had never slapped those cuffs around his wrists. He doesn’t want to remember how his face fell when realizing Jim was about to rob him of the second most precious possession a human being has: time. 

Instead, he pushes those thoughts far away and focuses on the present. Maybe, if he turns around and jumps into the river, he can save himself. All it would take is holding his breath for a while and diving so deep the bullet wouldn’t reach him. He could make it if he was quick enough. He could turn around and swim back to his little girl, who needs him desperately, far away from his past and start running. Jim Gordon should probably leave Gotham and never return again. 

Instead, he hesitates. He’d be hard pressed to admit why he does so, though. Maybe, because he knows deep down that he owes Oswald, owes him his life, his soul, and body. Maybe he’s just a bit too slow. 

Either way, the Penguin fires. Jim is about to jump into the river, but he cranes his neck one more time, looks over his shoulders and sees the tears streaming down Oswald’s face. They are genuine. Jim knows he hurt him like no other before. Not even Ed’s betrayal went so deep. 

“I’m so very sorry,” he thinks, readying himself for the deep-dive. 

It’s too late. 

Oswald Cobblepot is a good shot. The bullet from his gun hits Jim right between his eyes with a speed of 340 miles per hour. It punctures his skull effortlessly, makes its way right through his brain, and exits his skull before he even feels the slightest amount of pain. 

He wants to open his mouth in surprise, but lacking the time, he stumbles backward into the muddy water instead. How Oswald could have shot him so smoothly with those trembling hands is beyond Jim. It’s not like he especially cares when currently being engrossed with sinking to the river’s bottom, wondering when or if he’ll either see a bright, shining light or finally find peace in blessed darkness. 

Neither of that happens while Jim’s body hits the ground with a soft thud he shouldn’t be able to hear but does anyway. Being still aware of his surroundings, he wonders when the pain will set in, or when he’ll feel the cold of the water. Again, his expectations are not being met. 

Lying flat on his back in the filthy water, he looks up, noticing the pale moonlight illuminating the surface above him. He isn’t quite sure one is supposed to see moonlight when lying at the bottom of a river, but at least he got the light he asked for - well, a toned-down version. 

As he’s obviously still coherent, he turns around, trying to push himself back toward the surface. When doing so, he first thinks he’s staring into a mirror. He sees himself, stretched out on the ground as if resting. He halts his movements, stops struggling and simply looks. Considered everything the Gothamites dump in there, finding a mirror on the bottom of the river shouldn’t even come as a surprise. 

It’s only when Jim moves his hand, trying to swim, and his counterpart’s arm just keeps floating in the water, he notes something could be wrong. He inspects further, stares at his forehead and tries touching the wound on his head. Again, the man in the mirror doesn’t lift his arm. He also realizes how he doesn’t feel anything. Jim doesn’t pay it much mind first. After all, the water is cold and his hands might already be numb. 

It only dawns on him something is _ very _ wrong when he continues staring at his face underwater for a fair amount of time without running out of air. Startled, he draws in a deep breath. He realizes his mistake instantly, expects the water to flood his lungs, finishing him off in the process but nothing happens. 

The water keeps flowing, Jim keeps existing. 

Opening his mouth further, he lets out a horrified scream, hoping he might be hallucinating. Maybe, it’s only his remaining brain-cells’ last attempt at clinging onto life. He touches his chest on instinct, expecting to find a rapidly beating heart, forgetting that only moments ago he decided he was a hallucination. 

There is undeniably something solid beneath his fingers yet he can’t feel a pulse. The body in front of him is being lifted from the ground by the tide and floats past him. Jim reaches for the hand but is unable to hold on. 

The body rises from the ground again, shifts against two rocks and gets stuck. The cop stares at his body, unable to properly process what just happened. Torn between horror and wonder, he tries to calm himself down, to be a cop, a detective. This is merely a puzzle for him to solve he tells himself.

It’s the blood around the body, his blood, that gives him certainty, though. For some reason, Jim is so very sure he’s watching his own body. 

This is probably some out of body experience his brain procures for him to make dying easier. It will pass any second, Jim thinks, prays. He hasn’t prayed in years but now he’s screaming for _ any _deity to come and rescue him. 

Any minute, he’ll see a bright light, he’ll see his family, he’ll see his entire life stretched out before him. He just has to pray. Just one more moment and _ this _ will pass. The horror of watching his own dead body will dissolve and give way to beautiful memories. His thoughts will wander to Barbara, to his sweet, little baby-girl. Jim forces himself to think about pony-tails and patent-leather shoes, positively clings to the memory of her face, but the image escapes his mind like the water his hands. Maybe Jim is simply a man who doesn’t deserve this kind of comfort.

Sitting down, he waits for his body to shut down, to become a corpse. He knows he is dying, knows he is unable to do anything about it, even and especially if he so desperately wants to live. He wants to slip back inside this body, tries even, with more and more urgency, but of course, that’s impossible.

An indefinite amount of time passes and Jim starts getting frantic. He reaches for his corpse over and over again, unable to touch it, to feel it. 

A fish swims past him, a second one right through him. Jim swats at it, annoyed, but the living being doesn’t note him. It’s enough though to distract the terrified man for a moment. Unsure how much time already passed, he stares at the clock on his wrist, cursing when he finds it stopped four seconds past midnight. 

More sea dwellers come across, probably attracted by the blood emanating his corpse. Jim forces himself to calm down, wonders if he’ll have to wait until his body is gone. The thought alone sends another wave of panic right through him. He wants to leave, dammit!

The moment he thinks about leaving, his mind is being propelled towards the surface and he’s back where he started: on the edge of the pier. Jim blinks in surprise. 

Looking up, he _ sees _ the sun going up but something in his mind stops him from grasping that information. Everything still _ feels _like the middle of the night. 

Frowning, Jim looks up and down the pier, wondering if his colleagues are already looking for him and then gasps: he sees himself again - and Oswald. He watches himself stumbling into the water, notes the blood painting the black surface pitch-black despite the sun still going up. 

When blinking, the vision is gone. Jim squints again and is almost certain for a moment to catch a glimpse of something purple. Maybe Oswald’s frock?

He doesn’t want to dwell on it, though. Not now. He’s currently too busy figuring out why thinking solely the word ‘Oswald’ moves his mind again through space at sickening speed, causing Jim to find himself in the Van Dahl manor’s living room. 

The Penguin is seated on his couch, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders. His eyes are puffy, as if he had been crying, and the mascara he uses is smudged. Jim waves his hand before his eyes, wondering why Oswald isn’t surprised he just materialized out of thin air in his house; he for fuck’s sake is. The man before him shivers and pulls the blanket closer but else keeps ignoring him. 

That’s about the moment Jim seriously considers he might be a ghost. 


	2. I've Got A Question For You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim learns a thing about being a ghost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there's a bit of Nygmobblepot in here but please be aware Gobblepot is endgame. Don't wanna disappoint anyone. Thank you all for reading!
> 
> Thank you [ Le_Noir (Psycho_Ciquita) ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Psycho_Chiquita/pseuds/Le_Noir) for the beta! Thank's to Gobblepot, I had the privilege to meet you. So there's that. It's A LOT.

In the year 1901, the physician Duncan McDougall tried to prove that human beings have a soul by weighing them in the exact moment of their death. The result of his experiment was that the human soul, and therefore a ghost, weighs approximately 21 grams. 

The experiment had been highly unscientific and if Jim would have read about it while still being alive, he would probably have laughed it off. Given his numerous encounters with people like Dr. Strange, Jim should have been more serious about this particular piece of information but that’s just not the man he is. Which is odd, considering how many times Jim came close to death in his short life. He used to flirt with the idea of suicide, he threw himself into danger’s arms over and over again, he never valued himself all that much, especially in comparison to other people, and yet - he never gave death much thought. 

Therefore, Jim doesn’t know he still consists of matter. He’s pure emotion morphed into the reflection of his mind and memories, an earthbound piece of recollections of moments gone. Somebody should have told him while he was still alive that ghosts get stuck on earth when they have unfinished business left, when there’s something keeping them from moving on, from dissolving and becoming one with the cosmos. 

But then, if he would have known, what would that knowledge have changed? Jim would still have a debt to pay before becoming stardust. At least, he would have a vague idea of why he is still stuck. And armed with the knowledge that he consists of matter, he would probably soon figure out how to interact with his environment. 

However, Jim knows nothing about being a ghost. He only knows he is confused and scared while observing Oswald in his living room. He wants to go home and read his daughter a bedtime story, he wants to fix her hair and prepare a sandwich for her like he does on their mornings together before dropping a kiss on Lee’s forehead and going to work. He wants to walk into the precinct and prepare his and Harvey’s coffee. He would watch Harvey looking around carefully before opening his flask and adding a good shot of Jack to his brew, still thinking no one knows. 

It doesn’t matter how desperately Jim wants to do those things, he’s stuck in this house. He can think about his little girl all he wants, his mind isn’t moving through space like when he thought ‘Oswald’ back on the pier. 

No, he has to stay and watch. Little tears are dripping soundlessly from Oswald’s long lashes. The gangster is trembling beneath his blankets, searching the warmth of the fire while doing so. He’s biting his nails, chewing them until he draws blood and yelps in his self-induced pain. 

Jim almost feels sorry. 

Jim almost always felt sorry. Back when they first met, behind Fish Mooney’s club, he felt sorry, too. Oswald was nothing but an exchangeable, meaningless snitch back then. A young, ambitious little wannabe-criminal with just the right amount of luck and intelligence to stay alive. 

The moment Jim had seen him he knew exactly what he was dealing with: a frail kid looking for attention and power complete with a massive inferiority complex, someone who had been rejected so often he would literally do  _ anything _ to belong; and where he wanted to belong, was the mob. They would provide him with power, they would enable him to strike fear into the hearts of his opponents. Jim saw it all, saw the hurt, scared child. 

He saw something entirely else, too: a little manic gleam dancing merrily deep down in this child’s eyes gave the other part of his soul away. When Oswald’s club descended on the man lying before him in the gutter, he saw profound satisfaction. Every hit on the man’s body filled Oswald with greater joy, every drop of blood lifted his spirits higher. He reveled in the fact that he was inflicting pain, loved every second of it. The scream’s made him beat harder, his mouth curled into an impish smile, as he enjoyed his power over life and death. 

To this day, Jim can still hear the sickening sound of bones cracking beneath a club, the helpless whimpers of the man. Oswald’s pace never faltered, he never felt an ounce of compassion. This had been a test for him to pass and he wasn’t intent on failing. 

Therefore, the very first moment Jim met Oswald, he was instantly repulsed by and disgusted with him. No matter how many times they would get closer in the future, this very first moment would still hold Jim back and fill him with revulsion. 

Even when the city would be in shambles one day, only held together by the Penguin’s iron grip, it would be their first encounter that would keep the cop from tripping and falling into the man’s waiting arms. 

No matter how much good Oswald would do, he would always do it for selfish reasons, would only grant people safety and accommodation in exchange for power. Given, at one point, Jim had almost forgotten that. One night, Jim would see Oswald solely as a lonely man, struggling with the great responsibility bestowed on his shoulders. That night, Jim would forget what Oswald had done in the past and would continue to do in the future and just reach out for what little human emotion the villain had to offer, for that love that had always been reserved for him, and take it. This night feels like centuries ago, now. 

The Penguin loves to inflict pain and Jim knew he would one day inflict this pain on him. Oswald would have never guessed how well he would accomplish this particular task, though. 

And yet, Jim would have died for Oswald. In a sense, he did. Jim knew from the moment he put him behind bars, that the Penguin would seek revenge and would only find peace when killing him. That is just how Oswald works. 

Oswald has finally fallen asleep. He looks peaceful like this, curled up in front of his fireplace, mouth hanging agape, drooling onto his shirt. Jim snorts when the gangster starts snoring softly. He may enjoy a night at his own home, but he'll be back in prison soon enough, Jim thinks. It’s just a matter of time before cops will come flooding through the doors, demolishing the antiques he’s so fond of in the process, and dragging him back into a dark hole for the murder of the Commissioner of Gotham. 

Knowing Oswald will be back in Blackgate doesn’t fill Jim with satisfaction though, but with relief. He doesn’t want him to be locked up, doesn’t want him to be separated from the city they both love with all their heart, but needs must. This city needs protection, and Oswald, though he loathes to admit it, does too. He’d be safe in prison. And if Jim can’t protect him, Blackgate will.

Jim never wanted Oswald to be anything other than a law-abiding citizen. He avoided arresting him in the past deliberately until he had been given no other choice. Back when he brought Sofia to Gotham, he could just have taken him to Blackgate, too. With Harvey testifying to taking bribes from the Penguin, he would have had anything to get a warrant. That had never been Jim’s intention, though. He wanted him stripped of his powers, to be a normal human again. With his empire gone, he would have been just that: normal. 

Jim doesn’t doubt that now that he’s out of prison again, nothing will stop him from becoming a master of life and death once more. Especially with Nygma back at his side, freshly released from Arkham and more insane than ever, nothing would be able to stop them. Not unless they both get killed - and that’s the last thing Jim wants. 

Oswald mumbles something unintelligible in his sleep and Jim puts a consoling hand on his arm. There’s nobody here to witness him anyway, considering he’s invisible. The cop sighs when the criminal shivers. Pulling up his blanket, he turns over and Jim shakes his head. 

His feelings towards Oswald have always been conflicted and now that he’s dead, he should probably be pretty enraged Penguin finally pulled the trigger. The truth is, he mostly feels sad. He will not be there to watch his daughter grow up, to guide her and be a parent. He knows what lies before her, has lost his own father at a very young age, too. 

And Oswald will have nobody to protect him. Sitting down, Jim tries closing his eyes, but to no avail. He’s still perceiving his surroundings, still watching the fire and the mobster from the corner of his eye. As he’s dead already, there’s no way for his mind to shut down, to get any kind of rest. Jim wonders if that will continue for all of eternity. Penguin would probably be thrilled if he knew about this kind of torment. Or he’d say it serves him right - for Arkham. 

Heaving a sigh, Jim tries focusing on the fire instead. Arkham is definitely something he doesn’t want to think about right now. Or not ever. The moment he not only deserted Oswald but left him to being tortured still fills him with shame. It shouldn’t be an excuse, but when Jim went as far as killing a man for the gangster, he needed him out of his life, whatever the price. 

The grandfather clock in the corner ticks terribly loud, giving Jim something else to focus on than his past. He wills himself to count the seconds, listens to every creak of the old house and prays to forget. Should he forever be trapped in this state of consciously being able to observe but not to react? Is that his punishment for all the wrongs he did? 

Getting up impatiently, he finally decides to leave the room. He might be dead, he might be a ghost, but he can still think and move. Heck, he’s in Gotham! There must be a way for him to make himself noticed and then he’ll just have to find someone like Strange or Freeze and he’ll come back to life like Jerome or Galavan. It’s no big deal, he tries telling himself. In a city like this, death is nothing but a passing inconvenience, right? 

Turning on his heel, he starts walking toward the door with newfound determination. He’s a ghost, so solid surfaces shouldn’t be a problem, right? He might not be able to move his mind through space at a whim but he can take the traditional way and walk out, right?

The answer is, no. No, Jim can’t leave. He doesn’t know that yet, though. He’s unable to leave any room Oswald isn’t currently occupying. The only thing he can do, though, is get back underwater and watch his corpse slowly decay, but that thought doesn’t occur to him. 

Jim walks into the solid surface and just like a regular person, he’s incapable of walking on through. He tries touching the doorknob, tries grasping it, but his hand moves right through the metal. Not one to give up quickly, he keeps trying, focuses, tries concentrating on the surface in hopes the power of his mind would move  _ anything _ . Maybe it would have worked if Jim had been a telepath during his lifetime, but he wasn’t and the matter isn’t willing to bend to his will. 

At least not until someone finally opens the door for him. His excitement doesn’t last though, even with the door fully open, he’s unable to step outside, to walk away and seek freedom. Thin air is a solid wall for Jim and his panic flares again. He’s so overwhelmed by dread he doesn’t even notice it’s Edward Nygma who opened the door, currently strolling into the room, a huge grin plastered all over his face. 

Jim just wants to get out, reaches out, moves, but doesn’t accomplish anything. When he turns around, he can walk around, sit down, get his limbs to cooperate, but not when trying to escape. He literally howls in his agony, pushes against the invisible boundaries that hold him back, even scratches the air in his sorrow, but it’s no use. 

“Jim Gordon,” Edward says, catching the Commissioner’s attention effectively. Jim stops his useless, frantic movements. He turns around in awe. Could it be possible? Can the Riddler see him? 

“Jim Gordon is missing,” he announces gleefully, back turned toward Jim. Once the cop stops struggling, he’s being pulled back at Oswald’s side and Jim growls. He wants to go! But he has no choice but to observe the mobster slowly fighting his way back to consciousness. 

“Hmm?” he mumbles not all too eloquently. 

“I said Gordon’s missing,” Ed repeats, rolling his eyes affectionately at the other man. “Shift,” he orders then, making himself shamelessly comfortable beside him. 

“And why would I care about that?” Oswald snaps back indignantly, once he’s composed enough to answer with anything else than monosyllables. 

Ed stares at him incredulously for a moment before clicking his tongue and chuckling. “Maybe because he robbed us both of a decade of our lives while living his dream of white picket fences complete with a kid and a trophy type wife at his side?”

The Penguin narrows his eyes at the man in the green suit. “Still a tad bitter she rejected you?” he asks icily. 

“No, I stabbed her,” he answers flatly. “We’re even,” he adds without any emotion. 

Oswald studies him intently before nodding, seemingly satisfied. 

“I thought the possibility of Gordon being in a dark cellar and maybe getting tortured would lift your spirits,” Ed remarks, scooting closer to his partner in crime. 

“I’ve been sleeping,” he grouses in response. 

Taken aback, the Riddler leans away. Looking the Penguin up and down, he tries making up his mind. Cocking his head, he clicks his tongue against his teeth. “I’m an ocean but I fit onto the tip of a finger. What am I?” he asks. 

“Ed, I’m really not in the mood…”

“No,” he interjects. “You’ve been crying!” he accuses. “What do you know?” Ed presses. 

“Nothing,” Oswald grumbles unconvincingly while pulling the blanket tightly around his shoulders. “It’s awfully cold in here,” he complains in an attempt to change the subject. 

Narrowing his eyes at the gangster, Ed tries assessing the situation. “If they soon find a body it better not be associated with us,” he admonishes with a stern glare. 

Huffing, Oswald curls up on the sofa again. “Since when are you afraid of your moronic former colleagues?” he demands to know. 

“Since they threw me into the looney bin for ten years!” Ed snaps, jumping from the couch. “Besides, it won’t only be the GCPD but Lee and Barbara too who’ll be coming after us.”

“So what?” the Penguin grouses, peering up at the Riddler.

Gasping, Ed takes a step back. “You did kill him?” he asks, horrified. 

Oswald doesn’t answer, just keeps staring into the distance. 

“I seriously thought it would make me feel better,” he admits at last. 

“You ineffable idiot!” Ed screeches. “Only mere seconds after your release! Barbara will skin us both and bury our remains in Arkham. How could you not have waited for a more suitable moment?”

Slowly turning around, Oswald rises unsteadily to his feet. “I waited ten years,” he hisses. “I suppose I waited long enough. And now get out!”

“But…”

“I said OUT!” the smaller man screams. Hands balled into fists, Oswald looks ready to rip his associate apart. 

Ed stays calm, though. “It’s really not the time for one of your emotional outbursts. Tell me where the corpse is and I’ll take care of it,” he reasons. 

The Penguin stiffens. Limping to the fireplace, he leans his forehead against the tile above the searing flames. “Where his body is?” he repeats, an eerie smile distorting his features. “Do you really have to ask? It’s where you dumped mine, deep down by the fishes, on its way to the ocean.”

Worrying his lower lip, Ed considers this information. A flash of hurt crosses his face before it turns into a stony mask. “Don’t make dumping your lovers into the river a habit. It has your signature written all over it,” he teases briskly. 

“You’re one to talk,” he scoffs. 

“And?” Edward inquires, ignoring that last statement. “How did it feel?” he asks with true curiosity. 

“I don’t know, Ed,” Oswald replies, smirking. “You tell me. How did it feel dumping your one true love into the river?”

Mouth pressed into a hard line, the Riddler glances towards the smaller man with obvious displeasure. He raises his hand, unsure how to respond and finally settles onto the truth. “Like being skinned alive while burning my mind to ashes.” 

Oswald nods. “That sounds about right,” he acknowledges. “And doesn’t even cover half of it.”He pauses. Staring gloomily into the flames he mumbles, “I’m freezing, Ed.” Suddenly, his eyes light up and he turns toward Ed, an awe-stricken expression brightening his face, “It’s the first time you admit that you love me.” 

The Riddler snorts. “You can run but never escape me. You can’t touch me but I’m holding you in a firm grip. What am I?” 

“The past,” Oswald answers, rolling his eyes. 

“Exactly,” he praises. “I’m not going to live in the past because of you,” he adds, a threatening tone to his words. 

“Thank you, Ed,” Oswald snaps back, sarcasm dripping from his tongue. “You already made that perfectly clear in the  _ past _ . And now a bit of privacy, please?” Making a dismissive gesture, he ushers the Riddler out of the room. 

Sighing, he collapses back on his sofa. No matter how high those flames are, he can’t stop shivering. Jim is still at his side, unable to move anywhere Oswald isn’t going. He feels slightly guilty for listening to a conversation he was never supposed to hear, touched, too. There’s also this little pang of jealousy Jim tries stomping down. He has no right, no claims on Oswald, never had. It had been him who rejected the smaller man, always would. Maybe it’s just his hurt ego.

“I really only wanted to keep you safe,” Jim says into the stillness of the room. “I’m oddly glad Ed is looking out for you,” he adds. “But I don’t trust him,” he mumbles. “Not after what he did to Kristen and Lee. You’ll wind up dead, too,” he grumbles to Oswald’s almost again sleeping form. 

“I don’t trust him either,” he replies. “But he’s all I have,” he continues with a murmur before drifting back to sleep. 

Jim freezes. 


	3. Missed Opportunities

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim remembers his past and one particular night with Oswald.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you [ Le_Noir (Psycho_Ciquita) ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Psycho_Chiquita/pseuds/Le_Noir) . What shall I say? You're amazing, that's what you are. 
> 
> Thanks for your lovely comments!

Jim doesn’t stay frozen long. He’s a man of action. Leaping to his feet, he starts calling out to Oswald, overwhelmed by sheer joy. “You can hear me!” he yelps, gripping the other man’s arm tightly and trying to shake it. Of course, his actions don’t have any impact on solid matter. He keeps calling and touching though,  _ anything _ to make himself noticed. If he could just communicate, there would a solution to this chaos, a way to mend this mess.

“You can hear me!” he repeats frantically, but the gangster doesn’t reply, just keeps drifting back to the land of dreams. Sleep is overtaking him, making his limbs heavy and sluggish in the process. His head lolls back as another shiver runs through his body and Jim curses. The only thing he successfully managed so far was to make the mobster freeze. 

Mentally exhausted, Jim sits down on the fluffy carpet. It doesn’t make any difference if he stands, or sits, or lies, though. No position will grant him any kind of relaxation but humans are creatures of habit and Jim is still quite new at being dead. He still has to figure out how things work. If he would take a moment to consider, he would probably notice how Oswald only responded to him when being at the brink of sleep. 

Sleep is, among other factors, a state of altered consciousness. Therefore, mental barriers are naturally lowered which allows a being like Jim, a bodyless entity who can otherwise only communicate by manipulating matter, to talk and being noticed - if only briefly. Yet he’s unable to put the pieces together that quickly; forgivable mistake, given the circumstances. 

To Jim, it is a cruel thing, this slight glimmer of hope. He’s back to where he started: ignored and with no clue how to change anything about this. It reminds him of his marriage, Jim thinks bitterly; up to the point that all of this is his very own fault, too. 

It just hits him now that he hasn’t given Lee much thought so far. Maybe it’s because their relationship is by now nothing but a charade, kept up for public appearances. But that shouldn’t be a surprise, should it? They had found each other again when Gotham had been in shatters, when there was madness lurking behind every corner and then they decided to play house. Two people who had already descended into the darkness, the queen of the Narrows and Gotham’s fallen beacon of hope, had clung to the dwindling flame of their love and to each other, hoping against all odds they could go back to being the people they used to be. They had almost succeeded. 

In the end, their normal life had fallen apart. Lee had been unable to let go of all the people relying on and following her. Jim couldn’t blame her. Under the impression of running a clinic for the poor, she had kept ruling the narrows while her husband sought to ignore her morally gray activities. She was only helping people, he heard himself say in public more than once. The inhabitants of the Narrows loved her, so where was the harm? And didn’t the Commissioners before him look away, too? For the sake of public safety? She kept the order, didn’t she? 

And Jim? He kept annoying her at any given minute. He tried stubbornly going back to the innocent boy he was when leaving Chicago and the army, attempting to be an honest cop once more. He was a fraud, and he knew it. 

Jim can’t remember when it first started. Maybe the first time he looked away when Harvey dangled a man from a building in order to get information, or maybe the first time he used his fists during an interrogation. It definitely was there when shooting Galavan right between his eyes and walking away to let Oswald pay for his crime. And wasn’t it justified? Oswald had killed before, would continue doing so. What did it matter if he went to prison for a crime he didn’t commit? Jim would save others in the meantime, would go back to being an honest cop. It had only been one tiny mistake. Just this once, he had left his unit, his ally behind. 

Jim knew he was nothing but a hypocrite but he pushed those thoughts away whenever they emerged, became quite good at it over the years, too. Yet now that he’s dead, he has nothing but his thoughts creeping over him, drowning him, haunting him. Jumbled bits and pieces of his former life wash over him, choke him. He can’t contain the flood much longer. 

Oswald stirs in his sleep, setting the cop on high alert and granting him a much-needed distraction. 

Jim is quite obviously somehow tied to the gangster. He wonders what his purpose might be. Should he try keeping him from taking over Gotham? Should he just follow him around, wondering what might have been if had granted the other man the friendship he sought in the early days of their association? Or is there no reason behind his fate at all besides tormenting him? 

With nothing to do, Jim waits. He stares at the paintings decorating the room, looks into the dark eyes of Elijah Van Dahl’s portrait and the lighter ones of Gertrud Kapelput hanging next to it. Jim has never met Elijah but like any other Gothamite, he has read about the gangster finding his father again on the news. He compares the long nose to Oswald’s, the high cheekbones, the thin lips, and sighs. The similarity is striking and he wonders what possibly went wrong in the criminal's childhood, how Elijah and Gertrud drifted so far apart the man didn’t even know he was a father. 

Probably not much, Jim muses. After all, can’t he count himself lucky Barbara told him he would become a father? During Gotham’s darkest days, he and his former fiancée had found each other again - only for Jim to push her away the very next morning, disgusted and embarrassed by himself. She could have kept her pregnancy a secret and denied him his right to ever lay his eyes on his little daughter if she’d just been a slightly more cruel woman. But she hadn’t. Would Barbara come looking for him, too? Would she consider it had been Oswald who ended his life? 

It had been Oswald Jim had sought out for consolidation after she had broken the news to him. Not Harvey, not Lee. No, Oswald. Under the pretense of asking the gangster for more ammunition, he had made his way to his ridiculous headquarter where entire choirs used to sing his praises. 

Back then, he didn’t even know why. In hindsight, it was quite obvious, really. Whenever things went south in Jim’s life, he turned to his personal mobster. Getting fired? Ask the King of Gotham for help! A criminal mastermind on the loose? Go to the Penguin! Gotham is about to get destroyed by a redheaded nutjob? Well, there’s always a pale criminal to fly a blimp in circles for hours. Gotham will thank him, right? It will always provide him with three warm meals and a pallet to sleep on, courtesy of Jim Gordon. 

Oswald had been bemused when he turned up. The great Jim Gordon, defender of the innocent, had been in bed with a wanted criminal, forever tied to her now by their common child. It was hilarious. He deserved the mocking, he really did. 

The Penguin turned to his bar, sneering victoriously. “Need a drink?” he asked, filling up a glass and holding it out to him. He snatched it away right before Jim could take it. “I just remembered you’ve already had one too many,” he mocked, draining it in one go. “So what can I do for you?” he asked. “Do you want me to provide you with a cute little crib? Don’t know where to get diapers in this No Man’s Land?” he laughed while Jim scowled. 

Oswald refilled his glass, swirled the bright liquid around while watching the ice-cubes slowly melt and everything clicked into place. It was Oswald. It had always been Oswald. Jim’s problem and solution. 

When embracing Barbara, he had subconsciously embraced Oswald. Over the years, she had become his carbon-copy. The lady with the iron will, the Queen of Gotham, ruthless and cunning but ultimately just a copy of the original schemer. 

“What are you going to do now?” Oswald urged, the infuriating grin still firmly in place. “You gonna arrest mommy dearest once she has given birth and take little Gordon to prison for a visit every Sunday?”

He had thrown Jim off guard. It wasn’t like Oswald to taunt him that mercilessly, not with such acid. Jim wanted to smash him against the nearest wall. 

“How do you think will this child turn out?” the Penguin asked. “Do you think it will be more like mommy or like daddy?” he urged, bitterness dripping from his tongue. He put a finger into his drink, licked it off, grinning like the cat who caught the canary, obviously enjoying to be on higher moral grounds for once. 

Checking him out shamelessly, he added, “I’m not talking looks, obviously. Both mum and dad are quite dashing, but if it inherits mum’s insanity…”

The Penguin never got to finish his sentence. Jim had by this point already leaped to his feet and grabbed him by his lapels. With unhidden satisfaction, he witnessed the smaller man’s eyes widen almost comically. Beneath the polished surface, the Penguin was still a quivering, cowardly little bastard; just a kid playing with a club. 

Jim could almost hear his beating heart. His breath was hot on his face, ragged, abbreviated puffs, coming out too quickly. He truly was a delicate little bird, trapped in an iron grip. 

Leaning deeply into his personal space Jim asked, “are you jealous?” He arched his eyebrow at him, pushed him harder against the surface behind him, almost squeezing the answer out of him. 

“Why would I be?” His reply was nothing but a pathetic squeak, his breath coming out even faster. 

“You tell me,” Jim replied with a smirk, knowing the answer already. If asked the same question, he would have the exact same answer. Right from the start, it had always been those two, dancing cautiously around each other and never overstepping their self-drawn line. Up until tonight. 

“Because I would be,” Jim told him earnestly, slowly relaxing the grip on his throat - but not entirely, never entirely. 

The Penguin didn’t move, just stood there, frozen, wondering if that was another one of Jim’s tricks. 

All those years, Jim had tried being a good man, a good boyfriend, a good cop. He had epically failed at all tasks. Maybe, Jim thought, he would be better at being a bad man. If he just let go, if he stopped playing by the rules, stopped going back to his self-imposed rules any given moment, his life wouldn’t be such a mess. Maybe he should just cross a line and see where this step takes him. No harm done, right? 

His finger started tracing the outline of Oswald’s throat until his thumb was directly on his carotid. He could feel the life pulsing through him, just underneath his finger. If he’d push only a little too hard, the Penguin would fade to dust. Oswald closed his eyes, his breath stuttering to halt and Jim could practically taste his fear. 

Oswald didn’t run away, though. And it was all the permission Jim needed to continue. His hand crept further down, loosened the tie around his neck, opened buttons one by one. It was too easy. The jacket barely landed on the floor with a soft thud when Oswald dared to open his eyes again.

Jim had never seen such intense fear before. It should have stopped him, but it’s hard to pull the brakes on a train once it’s set into motion. The fear only spurred him on further. After all, it was his own horror mirrored on Oswald’s face. His mouth crashed against the mobster’s teeth, swallowing every protest the criminal might have wanted to bring up. 

Oswald kissed him back just as vigorously. He was like a puppet suddenly come to life, greedy to no extent for anything and everything. He practically ripped off Jim’s shirt and the cop didn’t mind, though some part in his brain supplied that this was in fact damage to property and punishable. He shushed his thoughts as he started returning the favor, fought his way through layers and layers of clothing until finally being rewarded with bare skin. He picked Oswald up as if he weighed nothing and bent him over his throne. 

Jim had always hated and loved the picture of the Penguin sitting on this darn thing, ruling over Gotham. But with no doubt in his mind, he wholeheartedly admired the picture of Oswald sprawled over the expensive furniture, writhing and whining for more: more touches, more kisses, more tongue, more teeth, more nails sliding over his back, following the outline of his crooked spine and the pattern of countless scars, some of which Jim is responsible for, some of which he isn’t. 

He’ll never forget the sounds Oswald made, those needy screams, begging him to continue, only outmatched by his own craving for fulfillment. 

It should have been their start. 

In those delusional moments of pleasure, Jim truly thought they could be together. They had always completed each other, had always been at their best when working together. So why not take it to the next level?

The harsh truth hit Jim the very next morning. After gathering their clothes and walking down, Oswald had become the Penguin anew. Jim had almost made the choice, had almost embraced his dark side and stood by Penguin’s side. But just when Jim said his goodbye, equipped with more goods than he could carry, he heard the gunshot. 

Oswald stiffened, clearly terrified. But not by the fact that someone had just been executed on his account, but by the fact that Jim had witnessed it. It shouldn’t have been a reason for him to turn his back, it wasn’t a surprise. He probably was only a coward - like always, but it gave him the excuse he needed to run away and not look back again, leaving his gangster hurt and humiliated in the process. 

The criminal stirs again in his sleep. More drool lands on his shirt and he smacks his tongue against his teeth. It’s Jim’s moment to talk again if he wants to be noticed but he misses it, just observes the Penguin slowly waking up, flapping around like a bird in the process. He groans in pain when flinging his legs over the edge of his sofa and cranes his neck. Even a healthy person is in a lot of distress after sleeping on a sofa and Jim wonders how the mobster must feel right now. 

Without warning, Oswald hugs his middle as if trying to contain the sob that escapes his throat. He whimpers again and convulses, unable to stop the tears streaming down his face. 

Jim stands awkwardly beside him. Seeing him so broken down makes him want to put a consoling arm on his head but by now he knows Oswald can feel the cold emanating his ghostly figure, if nothing else, so not to distress him further, he remains unmoving. Jim wonders if the gangster is crying over him, their shared history, or about himself. It’s probably all three. 

Another sob rattles through the murderer’s body before he gets up, starting his morning routine. He’s far from being well-rested. Not after going through an adrenaline-high and the inevitable, bone-crushing low that follows right afterward. He drags his bad leg after him as he shuffles clumsily down the hall, an increasingly embarrassed Jim in tow. 

No, no, no, Jim thinks when the bathroom door closes behind him but there’s absolutely no escape for the cop and no privacy for Oswald. All Jim can do is turn around when the Penguin starts stripping down, getting ready for his shower. 

It’s nothing he hasn’t seen before, Jim tries telling himself, but in this context, it is. He hasn’t seen the soft swell of his belly before or the fresh scars littering his chest, undoubtedly unwanted souvenirs from Blackgate. He hasn’t seen Oswald’s shattered leg in broad daylight either, this broken limb that has seemingly been put back together by a child. The kneecap is turned sideways, his ankle is flexed at a painful angle and a good chunk of his muscle is missing. Jim hisses through his nose at the sight - well he would if he still had a nose. 

With a pained groan, Oswald climbs into the shower, just stays under the hot spray for a fair amount of time. When emerging, his eyes are still swollen but he looks a lot more composed. Leaning against the sink, he studies his own face, examines the wrinkles next to his mouth. 

“Time to move on,” he mutters to his reflection. “The past doesn’t count. It’s only worth living in the future,” he carries on, probably trying to reassure himself. “Not that there’s much left of the past anyway,” he mumbles. “Had to bury and forget them all: mother and father, Martin, even my dog. And now Jim.” At the mention of Martin, Jim feels the guilt rushing through his form, like a flood of ice seeping to what is left of his mind.

With a sigh, Oswald snatches a towel from the hook beside him when another shiver runs down his spine and he starts wrapping himself up. “Gotta talk to Olga,” he grumbles. “The heating must be broken.” 

With that, he starts piling up his hair, crafting it into one of those odd towers he’s so fond of. Jim thinks it’s quite soothing to watch him shape his hair into a literal skyscraper. He’s almost done when his housekeeper starts knocking at the door. 

“Police here,” she announces with her heavy accent, startling the gangster and Jim who had been engrossed with Oswald’s dexterity. 

The Penguin scowls at the door before slowly sitting down on the toilet seat. “Took them long enough,” he whispers. 

“Sir, they want to see you,” Olga carries on.

“Just like the old times,” he murmurs before calling back he’ll be ready in a few minutes. 

He glances one last time into the mirror. “Well, Jim,” he sighs. “Seems like you’re troubling me even from your grave.” 

The cop snorts. He might feel sorry Oswald is about to pack his bags and move back to Blackgate but he really brought this onto himself. He was always sloppy with bodies. It’s truly a miracle he only went to prison for tax evasion (and maybe some sloppy police work on Jim’s part). This time, he’ll get more than ten years. Well, that is if Harvey can put the pieces together properly.


	4. Taradiddle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harvey pays Oswald a visit and Jim gets angry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huh, what do you say when picking up a fic after months? I'm really sorry but here's the good news: I have every intention to finish this story. It might just take a while. 
> 
> Thank you [ Le_Noir (Psycho_Ciquita) ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Psycho_Chiquita/pseuds/Le_Noir) for fixing my mistakes! Love ya!!

The police comes, of course, in the shape of one Harvey Bullock. When Jim spots the familiar, scruffy beard and the greasy hat, a wave of relief rushes through whatever is left of the former commissioner. Harvey is... _ family.  _ He’s been closer to Jim than his own brother, had been at his side when he started drinking, when he tried killing himself in any way imaginable, when the city had been in anarchy’s firm grip, when he had failed time and time again. It had always been Harvey’s job to save him, to drag him back from the literal abyss. Jim wants to scream in joy and even does. The sound punches through the core of his being, seems to both shatter him and be simultaneously unheard to the world. It’s a weird feeling - being so loud and so silent all the same. 

Yes, Harvey will be able to help. He’ll find a way to reunite Jim with his body, to mend this mess. He’ll call one of Gotham’s insane scientists, drop his body into some holy water, find someone to...do whatever can only be done in a city of utter madness. 

Plus, Harvey being here means they must have found his body and maybe Jim only needs to come close to his corpse, maybe Cobblepot will be taken to the morgue and then, - then... then everything will be fine. Yeah, Harvey will fix this and then they’ll be chasing the Penguin for attempted murder again and it will be just like the good old days. 

Unless, of course, it won’t. 

It takes Jim far longer than he’d like to admit it, given he’s a cop and everything, but the way Harvey paces about the mobster’s living room, the way he’s not acting as if he’d own the place, should have set off his inner alarm. He’s not submissive, not exactly, but he isn’t acting as if he’s about to haul the former umbrella boy’s ass back to Blackgate either. He’s somewhat  _ tense _ . 

“Penguin,” he greets gruffly, not sitting down without an invitation like he used to. 

“Detective,” the gangster purrs back with a crooked smile. He’s showing off too many teeth, accentuating his pointed nose when scrunching up his face awkwardly, and for a second, he truly looks like a Penguin - but not like a cute, clumsy bird, no, more so a creature from hell, a demon’s caricature of a living being and Jim remembers why he never truly submitted to the other man. He forgets, sometimes, what Oswald is capable of. Hidden under all that formal wear, polished smiles and perfect manners, lies a monster.

“I’m surprised to see you came personally to welcome me back in the arms of our beautiful city,” Oswald starts. The mobster limps to a nearby sofa and makes a show of sitting down as gracefully as possible with his injured leg. Extending his hand, he invites Harvey to do the same. 

“This isn’t a courtesy visit,” the cop replies but takes the offered seat with a huff. “If it had been up to me, I could have gone another decade without meeting you.”

“And here I thought you already wanted to rekindle our old friendship,” the Penguin retorts smoothly. 

“I don’t recall us being friends,” Harvey snaps back, more harshly than is probably wise. Jim cringes inwardly. Given the mobster’s unstable temper, taunting him isn’t probably the best course of action. He himself is the best example of that. 

Leaning back and taking a deep breath the cop comes straight to the point, “What do you know about Jim Gordon’s disappearance?” 

The silence that follows the lawman’s question is deafening. Harvey patiently waits for his answer, seemingly enraptured by the state of his cropped fingernails while the Penguin makes an impressive show of opening and closing his eyes in mock surprise, acting every bit like an appalled lady from an 18th-century novel. It’s laughable, really, and a wave of anger rushes through Jim at the sight. Storming over, he wants to shake the insolent gangster but of course, his hands only manage to reach through the ether when they try holding onto solid material. 

The only reaction Jim elicits is a little shiver from the mobster that easily makes his cheap act seem more believable. 

“Oh, haven’t you heard already?” Harvey teases skeptically. “The moment you leave Blackgate, our good Commissioner vanishes from the face of the Earth. And at first I thought, hey, might be a coincidence, but then I thought hey...Every time something bad happened to Jim Gordon it’s somehow related to you or your machinations, so why not ask our favorite, freshly-released jail-bird?” 

The mobster smashes his hand onto the table so swiftly and with such vigor, it startles all three of them. “I’ve been home for only a couple of hours, after having been locked up for false accusations no less. My first way lead me to my mother’s grave to pay her the respect she deserves, to take care of her derelict grave and to return to the house that  _ Jim Gordon _ had fruitlessly attempted to steal from me and  _ you _ come into my home and accuse me...of what, actually? Do you have any proof? Evidence? Or are you playing the same old tricks that robbed me of my freedom…”

Harvey halts the gangster’s rant with a motion of his hand and Jim shakes his head in silent admiration. If he hadn’t been shot dead only a couple of hours ago, he would almost be inclined to believe Oswald’s theatrics. 

“You’ve always been an exceptional liar,” the Commissioner acknowledges with a little snarl. 

“Thank you,” the Penguin mutters unthinkingly and Harvey raises his eyebrows while Jim freezes. Did he just….?

“Thank you?” Harvey parrots.

Confused, Oswald looks at him but quickly regains his composure. “Well, I suppose I should be flattered you believe me to be capable of kidnapping the Commissioner of Gotham City only mere minutes after my release from Blackgate. I must be a true comic book-supervillain in your eyes,” he scoffs derisively. 

Taken aback, Harvey considers the Penguin’s words for a moment. “How would you know he was kidnapped?”

“I don’t,” the mobster retorts bitterly. “For all I’ve heard he could have turned his back and ran from Gotham.”

“And leave his only daughter behind?” Harvey asks incredulously. Narrowing his eyes, he inquires him further. “And what exactly did you hear?”

“Ohhh,” Oswald shrugs innocently, “just what I read in the papers. How our holier-than-thou cop’s marriage failed when his wife decided to rule parts of the underworld or how he teamed up with the aforementioned daughter’s mother and notorious criminal to raise said child. Maybe you should take a good look at Gordon’s private life before coming after an innocent man - again.”

At that, Harvey bursts out laughing. “Oh, I will,” he promises, wiping his eyes. “But I still thought I’d start with the criminal who never got tired of pointing out to anyone who might listen how much he hates Jim Gordon. Isn’t that right, Oswald?” he urges. “The guards at Blackgate couldn’t stand your tune any longer. Said you were like a little teenage-girl rejected by her first boyfriend. The only thing missing was you scribbling Jim’s name all over your prison-walls - but you probably did that too, didn’t you?” he teases. 

Pressing his mouth into a thin line, the Penguin leans forward. Trembling hands fisted into the fabric of his own trousers, he replies, “You will understand, Detective, that I felt a slight wave of animosity towards you and your  _ partner  _ after the way you betrayed me in the aftermath of…”

“Betrayed you?” Harvey interrupts, angrily rising to his feet. “For a man as smart as you claim to be you are a short-sighted idiot.” Before Oswald can answer, the cop stops him with a motion of his hand. “You truly never figured it out, did you?” he demands to know curiously, and for once, the confusion on Oswald’s face is genuine. 

Knowing what is about to happen, Jim rushes towards Harvey. “No,” he mumbles, unwilling to accept what he can’t prevent now that he’s just a shadow in a room. “No,” he groans in frustration when the other man starts talking of what he had done all those years ago. Is it really necessary, he thinks to himself? Is it really necessary for Oswald to know about each and every time Jim failed to do what’s right? Must he know about yet another one of his mistakes? How is it possible Oswald always sees him at his lowest, stripped from his morals and caught in a web of impossible choices even after his death? Is that his punishment in the afterlife? Oswald, of all people, gaining the moral high grounds above him and taunting him with his knowledge? 

“You know you brought your time in Blackgate upon yourself, didn’t you?” Harvey challenges, clearly enjoying the Penguin’s tension. He mocks him like a game show host, marveling at his contestant’s distress. 

“No, I don’t,” Oswald admits through gritted teeth, clearly upset with the charade. Jim reaches for Harvey, even places a hand over the other man’s mouth but the motion goes unnoticed. 

“Did you never wonder,  _ Oswald _ , how you only got ten years? You murdered so many people: in front of my eyes, Jim’s eyes, in front of countless witnesses and all you got was ten measly, fucking years?” 

Oswald tries to reply but is again cut off. “If Jim wanted you gone forever, all he had to do was haul fifty plus people into the witness-stand.”

The Penguin, only moments before about to explode into a fit of rage, stands frozen in place. “Lies,” he whispers then, seemingly unconvinced. 

“Lies?” Harvey parrots, nearly jumping from the ground in his anger. “It was you who betrayed the government when Gotham returned back to normal. It was you who thought he could fill his pockets and walk away unscathed. You should be thankful you only got charged for tax evasion,” the cop bursts out. 

“Does the name Amanda Waller ring any bells? Did you or did you not try to fuck with her? Did you never wonder why Barbara, Ivy, Zsasz, and others walked free and didn’t get hunted down while you ended up in Blackgate for tax evasion of all things?!” he roars. “Unlike you, they were smart, they knew when to back down and not mess with people, but you and your greed! They wanted your head and I wasn’t against handing it over but Jim - oh Jim,” he emphasizes by pushing his finger forcibly into Oswald’s chest. “He wanted to give you a chance, he made a deal: pulled you from the streets for a considerable amount of time without having to kill you and reuniting Mrs. Waller with Uncle Sam’s money. And the hilarious thing is, you never even knew!” he exclaims in a frenzy. “They all knew, Ed knew, every idiot in Arkham or Blackgate knew but  _ you _ were too caught up in your revenge-fantasies and you really didn’t think  _ twice _ .”

Exhausted, Harvey falls back against the cushions, a slightly embarrassed Jim hovering next to him. Biting his lip, Jim doesn’t know what to say. What Harvey explained is just part of the truth, what he thankfully left out is how he failed to protect Gotham from yet another detrimental influence, one that this time came from the government itself. He opens his mouth, wants to explain that yes, all of that is true but just one side of the coin, that maybe he could have done more, that his actions were never about Oswald, that he could have...He isn’t really sure what he could have done but as nobody hears him anyway, he falls silent again.

The cop shivers slightly when Jim lays a consoling hand on his arm as they both wait for the Penguin to speak again. Swallowing heavily, Oswald looks down, barely concealing the tears glistening in his eyes. 

“I do remember talking to government officials when Gotham was reunited with the mainland,” he admits at last. “Mrs. Waller…” he scrunches up his face as he tries staying calm. “She made a proposal. Wanted various people to work for her. Not exactly the kind of work you’d expect respectable people to do. I thought she was yet another corrupt politician trying to benefit from the chaos.”

“She’s still very much in charge,” Harvey grumbles angrily. 

“I miscalculated,” Oswald admits with a sheepish smile. 

“And you projected all your anger onto Jim and once you walked out of Blackgate you either kidnapped him or killed him,” Harvey concludes. 

Gasping for air, Oswald screams out his denial. “Jim Gordon and I might have had our difficulties but you certainly don’t believe I could have kidnapped him and still be unaware of what you’ve just told me?” he exclaims angrily. “And as for killing him...You know better than anyone else in this city what we have been through. Do you really think I’d be capable of hurting him in this fashion?” 

“Very much so,” Harvey replies drily. 

“So if you want to arrest me,” the gangster snaps back indignantly, “present me the evidence. Is there any proof for your accusations?”

Laughing silently, the cop merely shakes his head. “Oswald, you still don’t get it. I’m not here as a cop. I’m here as Jim’s friend. The very same man who stood between you and Barbara Kean’s gun. And she strongly believes you have at least information on her child’s father’s whereabouts. The same goes for his still-wife Lee Gordon. You see, if these two ladies assume you hurt Jim Gordon, I won’t stand in their way, I’ll lean back and enjoy the show. They’ll tear down the city to get to you, at least you should know that. You know what they are capable of, so if you know where Jim is, you should talk now. Blackgate might be the last safe place for you in that case. Otherwise…” Harvey leaves the threat hanging as he readies himself to leave. 

Looking up, the Penguin stares pleadingly at the cop. “You must believe me,” he begs. The look on the criminal’s face is so innocent it catches Jim off guard. Hunched over on his couch, shivering from the cold in the room, he looks like a small child. He pleads with Harvey to believe him and his expression is so open, so trusting while the man himself is so frail and broken even Jim starts to doubt what happened to him on that pier. 

Getting up clumsily, Oswald limps over, extends his hands to the cop. “You are right, I was very mad at Jim but I could have never killed him. I had so many chances in the past but…” he trails off. 

“He was still my friend,” he admits brokenly when his voice takes on a higher tune, almost making him sound like a woman and Jim loses his mind. He can’t look away even though he wants to protest with all his might. 

He blinks once, searches for Harvey, wondering if the other cop falls for the trick but he’s already gone. 

“But you weren’t a friend to him,” a male voice replies instead, one that belongs to a man Jim has never seen before. 

Turning back to Oswald in confusion, Jim finds a petite blonde woman with her face hidden in her hands standing in the place the mobster used to be. 

“I took always such care of him,” she sobs desperately as the man starts menacingly walking towards her. Now that he’s stepping closer to the fire, Jim can make out a mop of thick, gray hair, a pointed nose, and thin lips, contorted in disgust. 

“A filthy whore, that is what you are,” the elderly man spits as he backs up the young blonde against the fireplace. From that angle, Jim has even a better view. He notes the man wearing a perfectly tailored suit, similar to Oswald’s taste but with much less extravagant details. He shakes the woman roughly as he pushes her towards the fire. 

“But I love him!” she protests, terrified. 

Horrified, Jim witnesses how the man smacks her across the face. “You love his money,” he hollers. Leaping forward, Jim tries to intervene, tries pushing the man off of the woman as he continues dragging her towards the fire. Angrily, he punches the man right in the face and the woman lets out an agonizing scream. 

Surprised, he lets go, giving her the opportunity to storm out of the room, a baffled Jim in her tow. While following her down the hall the cop briefly wonders if the man felt his punch or if the woman’s cry had been the cause of her escape. If Jim would have turned around though, he would have found the man rubbing his cheek.


	5. What's Worse Than A Demon?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim travels back in time and finds out cops are worse than demons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you [ Le_Noir (Psycho_Ciquita) ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Psycho_Chiquita/pseuds/Le_Noir)!

What follows feels like an onslaught. Jim is left with no choice but to follow the woman down gloomy corridors as he’s being pulled around corners and up the stairs. He wonders if death will always remain like this, being reduced to a sentient being that only observes but is unable to act. 

A door behind him slams shut and the blonde hurls around to lock it. Finally, the cop can take a better look at her and gasps. He knows her, recognizes without a single doubt on his mind Gertrud Kapelput’s face however  _ it can’t be _ . It’s a cop’s curse, being unable to forget a face, and even if he only ever saw her once he’s still absolutely certain. 

But when looking closer, he notes how it can’t be, mustn’t be. The fragile woman might resemble Gertrud, they share the same nose, cheekbones, lips...but it can’t be. This woman is in her twenties, at most, and most notably, she’s got a ferocity and purposefulness to her that Oswald’s mother always lacked. 

This young lady might be terrified but she’s not helpless. Jim observes her shoving a couple of dresses and some personal belongings into a bag before turning towards the window, for sure assessing the height and her chances should she be forced to leave the house by jumping through it. 

They both freeze at the sound of steps coming down the hallway and before Jim can react, the woman does. “Hold the door!” she shrieks, looking directly at the Commissioner. When he doesn’t budge she repeats her request, more commanding this time. 

Unable to process what’s happening, Jim does what he does best: saving someone. Turning, he drops his entire weight against the door. Closing his eyes, all he focuses on is the task at hand. James Gordon is still a cop and this woman is an innocent citizen demanding help. All he has to do is keep this door closed - at all costs. He sinks into the wood, feels each and every little atom, breathes the scents of wax, wood, and metal, imagines the lock fusing with the frame, imagines this single door holding up entire armies because if he doesn’t, whoever makes it through will kill her. He knows that with the same certainty he knows he’s dead, and he knows he won’t allow for it to happen. 

The woman glances at him from the other side of the room, smiling gratefully. Jim smirks back at her and it suddenly hits him. She’s resilient, she’d make it without him too, but he buys her the time she needs. Another item follows the ones already in the bag and for a reason unknown, it makes him incredibly happy she’s able to gather everything she requires. 

“I’m ready,” she states, already opening the window, preparing herself for the jump from the first floor. Holding out her hand, she invites Jim to follow her. Dazed, he takes it and for the second time today, he actually feels  _ anything _ . He senses her warmth, picks up on her scent, which is also vaguely familiar, and vows to protect her. 

“We’ll land softly,” she orders and Jim nods. 

“You can see me,” he states, slightly awed and noting how his state of mind resembles being drunk. Not that he minds - it’s wonderful, as if someone had taken his brain and wrapped it up in clouds. 

“Of course I can see you, silly,” she responds. “I conjured you,” the woman declares matter of factly. “I prayed for a guardian to watch over me and my child, I made the sacrifice - what good would it be if you’d appear and I couldn’t see you?” She shrugs as she tries ushering Jim toward the window.

Someone’s banging against the door already. However, Jim is certain they have all the time they need. Not a single second extra, but not one less, even. It’s a funny thing of her to say that though, that she made a sacrifice when he’s the one who died, he muses. 

Jim already wants to contradict her when remembering he still has to get his facts straight first. “You’re Gertrud, indeed,” he asserts, waiting for her to confirm. 

“Who else would I be?” she laughs a little bit, probably wondering what type of third-class guardian her magic procured. Given the circumstances, Jim accepts the concept of conjurings with shocking ease. Compared to dying, it’s not that outlandish though. 

The lawman wants to laugh out loud. When truly taking in her physique, Jim wonders how he possibly could have missed her circumstances in the first place. Gertrud is delicate, way too thin for it to be healthy, therefore the slight swell of her belly should have caught his attention earlier.

“You’re pregnant,” he points out, feeling a bit foolish for stating the obvious the second time in a row. 

Instinctively, she covers her belly with her free hand. “You’re here to protect him first,” Gertrud orders. “My safety is secondary. We made the deal, demon!”

“Demon?” Jim chuckles bemused and Gertrud’s face falls. 

“You’re not…?”

“A demon?” the dead man finishes. “Hardly. I have no idea what I am. I only know I died and it was because of the baby you’re carrying.” 

The women’s eyes open almost comically as she backs away from Jim in sudden horror. She grabs her bag, makes for the window once more, however backs down in sudden desperation. 

“But you helped me,” she cries out, frantically looking for another way out. Feeling guilty, Jim raises his hands placatingly. 

The door behind Jim rattles again, louder this time, and the cop feels a sudden wave of urgency, as if he was forced to carry on, else he might give away his chances. 

“I’m a cop, I help people,” he says matter of factly, opting for a soothing tone. 

“You’re a liar, demon!” she accuses instead, eyes rolling wildly from here to there and suddenly, it hits him. Jim didn’t recognize her right away but now, as she’s pacing the room hysterically, running her hands through the strands of her hair, he perceives the madness. 

In later years, her mental decline will be clear for everyone to see, but today the illness is nothing but a small seed. One day, she’ll seek salvation in the illusions her mind will gracefully procure for her and the thought alone saddens the cop. How must it have been, being raised by a mother gradually unable to differ fiction from reality? Is it the reason Oswald never told her about his true profession? It must have been easier, leaving her to her delusions and letting her see whatever she chose to. 

Stomping her feet, she focuses all her rage towards the cop. “I’ll raise a good boy!” she declares with conviction. “I’ll have a beautiful baby boy, and he will be happy, he’ll be honest, he’ll be generous, and he’ll know nothing but love. I swore,” she almost screams and Jim shakes his head. 

There’s something about Gertrud that makes arguing quite difficult, impossible even. “I said your baby is the cause for my death,” Jim sighs wearily. “I never said he’s responsible for it.” That’s not entirely true, but it’s a lie Jim can live with. Everything considered, dealing with men like Oswald on a daily basis is like playing Russian Roulette; he had it coming, especially after meddling with his freedom the way he did. Heck, he got ten good years, even. 

Jim wishes he could close his eyes for a second, escape this new reality for a second. The only grace he’s being given is the ability to stare at a stain on the wall. He wills himself to focus. 

“So it was an accident?” the future kingpin’s mother inquires curiously. “And even after your death, you’re here to help?”

“One could put it that way,” Jim admits drily.

The door rattles for the third time, a warning for the both of them to hurry up as a vivid image flashes before the cop’s inner eye: he observes himself stepping away, sees a lock breaking and wood splintering, he sees an outraged man storming inside, Gertrud screaming. Jim sees blood and he feels nauseous. He never could, could he?

Taking a deep breath, he imagines Gertrud’s lifeless body, a baby never born. It feels wrong and terrible, this death. 

_ ‘I will faithfully serve and protect anyone in need of a helping hand. I will never kill unless there is no other option to fulfill my vow.’  _ Jim silently recites the oath he took when joining the force, pushing away an image of his daughter running joyfully towards him. All of this is just a test, Jim tells himself. None of this is real and the past can’t be changed, he remembers his physics-teacher from fifth grade saying so. 

Face lighting up, Gertrud claps her hands. “He’ll be exceptional, won’t he?” she muses. “What a man he’ll grow up to be, how much he’ll be loved when his friends even seek to protect him after their death?” 

“You are friends, aren’t you?” she urges after a moment, giving him the same treatment he received the first time Barbara introduced him to her parents. It’s a look of pure scrutiny as she carefully sizes him up, for sure wondering if he’s good enough for her precious Oswald. 

“We’re friends,” Jim rushes to clarify, fully aware he’s finally saying the words her son longed to hear for years. 

Gertrud opens her mouth, indecisive. Jim isn’t sure why he’s secretly proud of the fact that she seems to be slightly disappointed in the statement before her demeanor changes again. It’s slightly endearing how much she and her son have in common. 

Narrowing her eyes suspiciously, she assesses the dead man once more. “You said you’re a cop,” Gertrud recalls. “If you are indeed a cop, why would  _ you _ , the corrupt scum of Gotham, be friends with my baby boy?” 

Rolling his eyes, Jim prepares for his well-studied not-all-cops speech, the very same he bestows upon hesitant witnesses. 

“I’d teach my child better than to hang out with cops and robbers,” Gertrud declares furiously and honestly, Jim can’t blame her, yet he’s got a trick up his sleeve that works even better than any type of persuasion. 

“All honest cops have either quit or died,” he snaps back. “As we both can see, I’m the latter,” he adds drily.

Despite herself, Gertrud chuckles. “Can’t argue with that, darling,” he declares warmly. 

“We should leave now,” Jim reminds her when he feels something pressing against his back. There’s no urgency though. He feels it again, this floating, unearthly sensation of being a mere pawn in a greater game, unable to act but to follow the path of destiny. 

“Do you think you can help me?” he wonders out loud when taking Gertrud’s hand, leaping out of the window together with her. 

He hears the wind rustling through the trees the very second she shouts her answer. They land on the grass, both chuckling in delight when she brushes off the leaves from her dress while Jim is still completely unaffected. 

“Who was that lunatic anyway,” Jim wants to know, already running into the woods with her, admiring the long strands of hair dancing through the air. She looks so  _ alive _ , like that, not even knowing how close indeed she’d been to death. If just one tiny thing had turned out differently, if she had tripped, if she had been silent instead of loud, if the door had not been made from oak, if…

Life always beats death, Jim decides. There’s no hidden romanticism in a life cut short, in a heart stopped from beating. Gertrud is gorgeous, and full of hope and love for her son’s future. He couldn’t take that from her even if there might have been a chance it would have stopped his own suffering. 

Laughing in sheer relief, Gertrud runs through the trees, the bag flapping over her shoulder. “Who should it have been,” she grins. “My baby boy’s grandfather, of course.”

Even Jim has to giggle. For Gotham’s standards, that sounds like such a mundane family-drama. 

“I need your help, though,” he shouts in lieu of an answer. “I need to be alive again,” he adds and Gertrud stops. 

The good mood from mere moments ago is lost instantly and Jim swears he can  _ almost _ feel the temperature dropping himself when his stomach falls. 

“Oh, my poor baby,” Gertrud says, cupping his face lightly between her hands. “My poor, poor baby,” she repeats sadly. “The dead can’t return to life. Not like that. Either, they are gone, or they need to fulfill their purpose.” Jim hopes it’s only a trick of the light she suddenly sounds crazed. 

After pondering for a moment, her face suddenly lights up. “But I can do one thing for you,” she proposes excitedly. “I told you I’d make sure my son stays away from cops. I’ll teach him not to befriend one, maybe…”

The gunshot echoes through the woods, cutting her line of thought short. That has been the last warning and Jim can practically feel the time running out as his mind is getting dragged through space and time, hurled mercilessly through the void back to where he started. 

The feeling is similar to a cramp, only worse, and a hundred times more painful. Here goes his only chance for help, Jim thinks, as Gertrud leaves him behind, taking his ability to communicate with another living being with her. He screams after her, begs her to call him back, to help him however possible. 

Turning, she reaches for him, tries grabbing his hand again yet they both already know she can’t follow. “I promise,” she shouts after him and Jim wants to weep. 


End file.
